We are outfitters. We are fortunate enough to make a living providing the rare opportunity to hunt elk, mule deer, moose, and bighorn sheep in the high country of Colorado. Through an unexpected return of a landowner voucher, it was my turn.
Having been born in 1970, 2020 was a significant birthday year for me. I had decided I would commemorate this milestone by looking for and experiencing #12newthingsin2020. An archery elk tag topped the list of possibilities and dreams. However, nothing went as planned. While many others were quarantined and shut in, we had more work than we could possibly do for the two of us. From dawn to dark, we worked, finishing up construction projects, doing trail rides, preparing camps, and getting ready for the upcoming hunting season.
I didn’t draw any archery or rifle tags. However, much to my disbelief, I was unexpectedly gifted two tags – a private land only (PLO) mule deer tag and a PLO antelope tag. With a 2020 COVID-19 style twist of events on the East Coast, a second rifle landowner voucher bull elk tag was returned. I would hunt after all.
It was 3:39 a.m. on Friday according to the red digital ceiling clock, and the alarm on Greg’s side of the bed was set for 3:40. On Wednesday, we had packed in four fully-guided hunters along with two guides. Thursday was more of the same, and we spent about 13 hours preparing and packing in five hunters to their drop camp. It was now my turn to hunt, and I was the furthest from being mentally prepared that a person could be.
We left the barn at 4:57, 15 minutes ahead of schedule. Trailering four horses a mile down the road, we unloaded and packed the panniers in the dark. After 10 minutes on the trail, Greg told me to “sing out” if I needed anything. I saw that it was 5:43. We were running right on time.
When the ride was over, we were tying up below the ridge and offloading panniers. With five minutes left, we were out of the timber and it was legal shooting light. The wind was from the southwest, and we skirted the timbered edge to a point of pine and glassed the park.
For the next two days and nights, I had the privilege of a personal 1:1 guided hunt with the Boss Man (my husband) of Mineral Mountain Outfitters. With responsibilities to other clients, he left for half a day on Sunday, traveling back to the ranch for supplies and then up to another fully-guided camp. He made up for the inconvenience by returning with a pop-up blind in anticipation of a winter snowstorm forecasted to dump up to 10”. Over the 36 hours we were together, we experienced gale force winds, sleet, snow, and one glimpse, minutes before last shooting light, at what just might be the bull of my dreams. However, the next morning’s hunt from the same ground blind didn’t prove successful, and with other paying clients to care for, my guided hunt was over. I was a solo hunter.
It was now 5:15 in the evening of the day my guide left. I’d been in my snow-covered blind for about an hour and a half when I heard a low foghorn-like bugle. Moments later, I saw the bull. Game on. Dropping to my knees, I prayed my shot would be true before leaving the blind.
Closing the distance from 500 yards to 300, I moved north to a smaller grouping of pines. With my back against a dead pine and my rifle on the monopod, I waited. I wondered if I missed his exit when I saw antlers moving behind a hill. I saw him coming towards me as if on a string. “Please, Lord, let the wind be right.” Even prayers whispered with unwavering faith don’t guarantee a change of wind. He stepped behind a tree and was 175 yards away. A couple more steps and he threw his head up. I saw that he was quartering to me, his body hidden behind his left front shoulder. I wavered, having heard the horror stories resulting in game unrecovered with quartering shots. He turned and headed straight away, disappearing over the ridge.
Throughout the night, the “what ifs” haunted me. I’d been schooled, and it took great effort to remind myself that true success is always preceded by failure.
The dawn of the next day was clear and bright. I hunted the morning with no elk to be found. After 1 p.m., I once again packed up to go do some scouting. Turning and taking five steps or so, I looked right past the tent through the aspens and there in the park were a few cows and calves quietly moving southwest.
I froze in disbelief. Quickly turning back, I looked past the other side of the tent. More cows and then a spike bull. I hobbled on my knees back to the other side and down the side of the tent and saw more cows and then antlers. Two bulls of smaller size than the previous night’s bull stepped forward. I ranged them at 139 yards. One was slightly bigger than the other, and he was on my side. When he stepped forward, I squeezed the trigger of the .300 RCM. It was a solid hit, but he didn’t go down. The whole herd headed along the edge of the timber to the open park, turning south and skidding to a snowy stop 300 yards from my blind. The bull I chose followed with the unmistakable staggering run of a serious hit and then paused. This time, he was about 200 yards from my standing position. I watch his humped-up form, not wanting to lose unnecessary meat and hesitating a little too long before ending his approximately 4-year-old life with another bullet and with the dignity befitting this exquisite animal.
I stood there trembling with excitement and disbelief. I had just harvested a bull elk alone in a drop camp at 10,500' elevation. Cradling my rifle, I walked towards the bull. I radioed Greg, but there was no reply. It was just me, the elk, and the God who created both of us. I counted the points. A 6x6, but wait, on the offside in the snow, there was a kicker. A 6 x Lucky 7. My first bull elk. Returning to camp, I gathered a bucket, a couple heavy trash bags, a tarp, and my Outdoor Edge knives. Solo hunters must break down an elk, well, solo.
It was 5:30 now, and it was over. This outfitter’s wife was gifted the opportunity to experience what very few men have been able to – a wilderness, limited draw, horseback elk hunt, and I had better be able to take care of the harvest. When I finally got in touch with Greg through the Midland radios, he was about 10 miles away as a crow flies. He told me he’d be up mid-morning tomorrow, Wednesday, to pack me out. There was only one thing to do, break down the bull with a gutless quarter. I’d never seen one done before, but I’d read about them. Using the Outdoor Edge field kit that a client had gifted me, it took me two and a half hours to skin the top side, remove the quarters, backstraps, and neck meat, wrestle the carcass over, and repeat on the offside.
It is with extreme indebtedness to my husband, Greg, that I hunt and explore alone with the exception of my InReach and S&W .357 that keep me company. Greg believes in me, understands my insatiable appetite for the wilderness and adventure, pushing me to enjoy all I can fit in between my responsibilities as part owner of Mineral Mountain Outfitters and the numerous tasks of daily mountain living. I am a better person because of his trust.
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